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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538659">You Take My Breath Away</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenroseSun/pseuds/PenroseSun'>PenroseSun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous Self-Harm, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), First Kiss, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Other, Requited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:22:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenroseSun/pseuds/PenroseSun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to cope with a case of frustratingly unrequited love, Crowley gives himself a chronic case of hanahaki. Unfortunately, it turns out that defictionalizing a very tangible literary devise is a really bad strategy if you also want to hide said feelings, especially if the object of your affection is a certain bookish and extremely observant angel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Mini Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Take My Breath Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title taken from the Queen song, because as we all know, all Good Omens fics left on AO3 for more than about a fortnight metamorphose into Queen lyrics.</p><p>Written for the Good Omens Mini Bang.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Crowley wasn’t quite sure when he’d first heard about Hanahaki Disease.</p><p>He’d been in fandom since the early days, of course. He’d gotten his feet wet by jumpstarting the popularity of Banned from Argo, and had quickly decided he loved it – and after that, he’d always toss a fandom-related crisis Hell’s way when he needed to pad a report. Introducing “noromos” to the X-Files shipping wars had helped to get his superiors off his back about the Oslo Accords, for example, and engineering the LiveJournal Strikethrough had been enough to completely excuse an entire year’s worth of unnecessary and largely Aziraphale-related miracles. It was simple, trollish work – very much his speed, and he always liked to keep abreast of the latest trends.</p><p>So, it made sense that at some point he must have heard of it. Hanahaki Disease was one of those tropes that you’d just see again and again and again – like soulmates, or a/b/o, or the perennially cringey highschool AU. But Crowley couldn’t remember which fic he’d first encountered it in, or even which fandom.</p><p>The symbolism was nice, he vaguely remembered thinking at the time. It gave unrequited love, usually so personal and hidden, a physical manifestation. It upped the stakes. And, it gave writers a marvelous excuse to use all of those assorted sick-fic tropes at the same time. Crowley hadn’t seen any good way to use it for evil, though, and so he’d filed it away without ever really dwelling on the subject.</p><p>But the idea had lingered in his brain, for some reason. The physicality of it fascinated him. He thought of how sometimes he <em> ached </em> , and wondered what it might be like if that ache was real and in his body instead of just within his metaphorical heart. The image stirred up a sort of perverse jealousy, sometimes, when a particular bout of melancholy struck him. He <em> wished </em> he could hurt for real; wished he could <em> actually </em> die of a broken heart.</p><p>He’d shove the thought away as soon as it came, naturally – tamp it down in the deeply repressed part of his mind, and move on. And that would work, for a little while. But inevitably, the thought would be back, stronger and more vivid than before.</p><p>And then one day… he’d gone to a concert with Aziraphale. Ostensibly, it was to compare notes about Warlock, but mostly he just wanted to see his angel smile. They had sat side by side, Aziraphale with rapt attention towards the stage, and Crowley with rapt attention towards Aziraphale. They’d been so tantalizingly close, and on a stupid impulse, he’d reached out, and held Aziraphale’s hand gently.</p><p>Aziraphale had started, jerking his hand away, and they’d both sat through the remainder of the concert in tense silence, pretending that it hadn’t happened.</p><p>That night, Crowley replayed the moment in his mind, berating himself (and his plants) for his failures. His chest felt tight.</p><p>He found it didn’t feel tight <em> enough</em>.</p><p>On a whim, Crowley coughed up a flower. It burned his throat, and he spat the wet petals onto the ground in disdain.</p><p>
  <em> Pathetic. </em>
</p><p>But then, so was he.</p><hr/><p>It became a pattern.</p><p>He and Aziraphale carried on as they always had, and sometimes, when Crowley found it was too much, when he <em> burned </em> with love and had nowhere to put it, he’d excuse himself and hack up a flower or two, letting the plant manifest a little bit more firmly into his lungs. It hurt, and it felt right, because being with Aziraphale always hurt these days, and at least now it was <em> real</em>.</p><p>A glance. An accidental touch. A single smile, perhaps.</p><p>And a flower.</p><p>Crowley knew how desperate he was, underneath it all. He was painfully aware how quickly he’d drop everything to get Aziraphale out of a tight spot – the lengths he would go to make the angel happy. It wasn’t proper for a demon to be kind, let alone in love, and so he’d do whatever he could to bury the feeling. He camouflaged every invitation to dinner with a business-related excuse, and picked at discussion topics that he knew Aziraphale hated when things got too comfortable. Aziraphale would smile at him, and either take the bait or leave it, and Crowley, helpless, would wonder if he was fooling anyone other than himself.</p><p>And so he’d run into the nearest bathroom, cough up a lung, and rinse a handful of wet flower petals down the drain.</p><p>Demons didn’t actually need to breathe, and besides, Crowley was fairly sure that he could stop it, if he ever really wanted to. He was also distantly aware that that was what addicts sounded like, but, well. He was quite literally only hurting himself.</p><p>Sometimes, he caught Aziraphale looking at him oddly as he’d dash off, or when he returned.</p><p>“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale might say when a coughing fit overtook him, reaching out to him on instinct. But then another look would cross his face, like the angel had suddenly remembered who and what Crowley was, and inevitably, his hand would drop away.</p><p>Crowley would swallow the pain each time, and smile easily. “‘Course I am, angel. Tempt you to a spot of lunch?” And the vines in his chest would twine just a little bit tighter.</p><hr/><p>The confrontation at the bandstand – and the repeat in front of the shop, and the fire, and the literal apocalypse – all hurt less than Crowley might have imagined they would, if he’d ever cared to imagine such an unrelenting string of unmitigated disasters. The entire day was brutal and crushing and horrible, yes. But it also all happened so quickly that Crowley didn’t have time to properly feel it. It was hard to really pine when the world was coming to an end, and other than a bare couple of mallow flowers that he coughed up into his whiskey at the bar, Crowley’s Hanahaki barely even noticed that his heart was breaking.</p><p>In fact, in the excitement of it all, Crowley almost forgot he had the blessed thing in his lungs at all.</p><p>The two of them rode back to Crowley’s flat in near silence, and hashed out their plan for the next morning without much fuss.</p><p>And then, exhausted, they all but collapsed into each other, holding on like they’d almost lost each other, and like they were terrified that they still might.</p><p>“I thought you’d left me,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley whispered that he thought Aziraphale had <em> died </em> into the angel’s hair. They clung to one another, still shaky from how close they had come, but rock-sturdy against each other’s trembling warmth. They could have held each other like that for hours, secure in the other’s arms. It was like coming home – like safety and comfort and love. Like a single perfect moment, apart from time.</p><p>…And then Crowley was overtaken by a violent coughing fit, and had to stumble away.</p><p>“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, reaching for him. “My dear, what’s–"</p><p>“Don’t,” Crowley managed to grit out, biting back flowers. “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“It certainly doesn’t seem like nothing. Crowley, let me–"</p><p>“I said, drop it!” snapped Crowley, and Aziraphale pulled back like he’s been slapped.</p><p>“…I’m terribly sorry,” said Aziraphale, and the warm feeling from before was gone, gone, gone. It had disappeared like it had never existed, and Crowley could see even now from the angel’s posture that it was never coming back.</p><p>He nodded sharply towards the bedroom, and gritted his teeth through the pain. “You can take the bedroom proper – the couch pulls out, and I’ll take that. I’m gonna go shower. Switch in the morning, yeah?” </p><p>“…Of course,” said Aziraphale, and if there was hurt there, Crowley wasn’t so foolish as to attribute it to disappointment. “Yes, we’d both ought to clean up and get some rest. Thank you again for hosting me.”</p><p>Crowley disappeared into the bathroom without another word, and cranked the shower on full-blast. He coughed up an entire bouquet’s worth – mallow and clovenlip toadflax and bright red anemone – and cursed his own subconscious.</p><p>It was too on the nose; too cute by a half. Crowley had always been the horticulturalist between them, but Aziraphale had been the one who really took to flower language. What would the angel think if he saw Crowley like this, vomiting “consumed by love” at the slightest moment of kindness? Nothing good, he was sure.</p><p>The flowers slipped slowly down the drain – a horrible mix of plant matter and desperation. And Crowley breathed a ragged, pained breath through lungs that were not quite his, and buried the feelings like he always did.</p><hr/><p>Three weeks after their respective trials, Aziraphale surprised Crowley with a picnic.</p><p>It was a lovely afternoon, and perfect weather, and Aziraphale had packed a wonderful spread: french bread and charcuterie, a wedge of Comté, and a little tin of biscuits for dessert, along with a miraculously chilled bottle of Chenin Blanc. Crowley should have been thrilled. And truthfully, a part of him was, although it was slightly overpowered by the part of him that was transported all the way back to 1967 whenever the words “picnic” “Ritz” and “too fast” were even alluded to.</p><p>He coughed into his hand, and dropped a couple of stray flowers out of sight as they set up, and did his level best to put the thoughts from his mind.</p><p>It was easier than expected, as it turned out. The picnic blanket that Aziraphale had brought (tartan, of course) had plenty of room between them, and they settled into their normal habits of banter as easily as anything. It was no different from any other outing, really, Crowley’s one-sided preoccupation with the concept of picnics aside.</p><p>Aziraphale told him about his latest venture to acquire a particular rare book – a pristine first edition <em> Intentions</em>, and about his latest strategy to scare customers away from the shop by making a series of “negative reviews on that Yelp site, have you heard of it?” Crowley told the angel about his obnoxiously misbehaving Ctenanthe, and suggested a couple ways better than Yelp that Aziraphale could use to keep unwanted customers away. By the time he and the angel had finished off the bottle, it was well into the afternoon, and they’d lapsed into a lovely sort of companionable silence, which Crowley didn’t care to break.</p><p>It was comfortable, and easier than things had been between them in a very long time. Perhaps, Crowley wondered, things would be more like this going forwards? Maybe losing their respective employers would finally allow the two of them to move on.</p><p>One could only hope.</p><p>Crowley was in desperate need of moving on.</p><p>“Oh, would you look at that,” exclaimed Aziraphale suddenly, and Crowley turned. Aziraphale had noticed a shock of red hidden among the grass near Crowley’s side of the blanket and was reaching for…</p><p>Crowley’s heart jumped up into his throat. He tried to speak, tried to divert Aziraphale’s attention, but found that he couldn’t. Instead he sat frozen as Aziraphale’s fingers curled around a single pristine flower, and watched, horrified, as the angel picked it up and examined it.</p><p>“What a beautiful flower!” the angel said, although it was anything but. Crowley watched as Aziraphale held the offensive thing – carefully, like it was something precious and delicate, instead of something vile. Aziraphale twirled it gently between his fingers and smiled. “It’s quite strange to see these so late, isn’t it? I thought that anemones flowered in May or June.”</p><p>Crowley made a noise that was halfway towards being a shrug, and frantically tried to swallow the last of the acrid petals that he still had at the back of his throat.</p><p>“Of course, I suppose you’re the expert on plants,” Aziraphale continued. “What do you think?”</p><p>“Mmn,” said Crowley. “Sure. Late. ‘Guess so.”</p><p>“I wonder if it isn’t Adam’s doing, then,” Aziraphale mused. “He seems to have stretched the summer out a bit; perhaps he’s expanded the spring a little too.”</p><p>Crowley nodded. “Could have,” he hedged.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled, beautiful and radiant, and twirled the flower between his fingers. “Well, there are certainly worse ways a boy with his powers can entertain himself.”</p><p>And then, on some sort of bizarre whim that Crowley could not even begin to fathom, Aziraphale took the flower and tucked it behind Crowley’s ear. </p><p>“Red suits you, I think,” Aziraphale said, like it was nothing, like this was <em> normal</em>. Like he hadn’t just picked up a piece of Crowley’s broken heart and lovingly handed it back to him without even knowing what it was.</p><p>The vines in his lungs <em> squeezed</em>.</p><p>Crowley startled back, and stammered something incoherently, pulling away from the angel as fast as humanly possible.</p><p>“Crowley…?”</p><p>There were flowers in his throat – too many flowers. He could feel then pressing on his airways, twining around the inside of his chest. He had to get out of here. Every second he stayed was a second closer to ruining everything.</p><p>“Crowley, are you–?”</p><p>“Sorry angel–” he gritted out, up and standing already, and retreating before he had a chance to change his mind. “Just remembered I have a, a thing. Thanks for the invite.”</p><p>And then he left Aziraphale alone in the park, and didn’t look back.</p><hr/><p>Aziraphale never pressed Crowley for an explanation of what had happened, thank someone. But he also didn’t suggest another picnic, and Crowley noticed that their outings had grown less frequent in general.</p><p>It was a shame, although it was far from surprising. Crowley had always suspected that most of the past eleven years had been much higher contact than Aziraphale had ever actually wanted. It was never meant to last, and Crowley certainly didn’t begrudge Aziraphale his space, now that the angel had apparently remembered how high-maintenance and exhausting Crowley could be.</p><p>And truth be told, if his recent near-miss flower incident had taught Crowley anything, it was that he ought to pull a bit away too, albeit for a very different reason.</p><p>It wasn’t like they’d stopped seeing each other, either – they still fed the ducks now and then, and still got together for occasional drinks. Aziraphale just rarely initiated, and Crowley did his best to leave a little earlier; ask for a little less. And so far, it had worked beautifully.</p><p>This particular evening, they had retreated to the shop for drinks, gotten thoroughly sloshed, and rambled and reminisced just like they often had before the Antichrist. Aziraphale smiled, and leaned in just slightly as they spoke, gesturing freely, and glowing with far more than the alcohol. They were so close, so <em> blessedly </em>close – close enough that Crowley could have leaned in and kissed Aziraphale if he wanted to.</p><p>(And distant enough that it would be a horrible mistake if he tried.)</p><p>So Crowley monitored his own breathing carefully, and at the very first twinge…</p><p>“Well, it’s getting late,” Crowley said, standing suddenly. “‘Best be heading out.”</p><p>“Oh, come now, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t miss the way his face seemed to fall. “Stay a little while longer, won’t you, dear? We still have half a bottle left between us. And you’re always welcome to stay the night here, if it gets too late?”</p><p>It was a very tempting offer, but Crowley could feel the pressure building in his lungs – not much yet, but enough that sitting around basking in the angel’s company would certainly be tempting fate.</p><p>He smiled something close to easily, and snapped his fingers, refilling the bottle, and furnishing it with a pristine cork. “Happy to finish it with you another day, angel.”</p><p>Crowley fumbled around for his glasses; shoes; jacket – and was genuinely surprised when Aziraphale stopped him with a hand at his elbow.</p><p>“Crowley…” he said, and there was something oddly strained in his voice.</p><p>“Eh?” Crowley asked, pausing midway through collecting his things. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“…Do you have to always run away?”</p><p>Crowley’s blood ran cold. “…What?”</p><p>And then Aziraphale was up on his feet and pacing, and the wonderful calm of the room and light in his eyes were both gone like they’d never existed.</p><p>“Look, Crowley – I’ve tried to meet you halfway, and I’ve tried to give you space, but it seems like no matter what I do, I… I just don’t know what you want from me anymore. The picnic was my fault, clearly, and I never should have even suggested it, but–”</p><p>Crowley cut him off, as gently as he knew how to. “Look, Aziraphale, I’m tired, you’re tired. I think I should really just get out of your hair before…”</p><p>“Before what?” asked Aziraphale. “Before we end up talking about this?”</p><p>Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale walked back over to him, and reached out – then, as always, thought better of it.</p><p>It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.</p><p>Crowley closed his eyes, and swallowed down what he sincerely hoped was nothing.</p><p>“…Crowley, could you <em> please </em> just tell me what is going on?” Aziraphale asked, finally.</p><p>“Nothing’s going on,” said Crowley, without much conviction.</p><p>“Oh, <em> don’t </em> say that,” snapped Aziraphale. “Please don’t. I don’t know what or why or <em> why now</em>, but Crowley, I can see what’s right in front of me–”</p><p>Crowley snorted. “…’Course you can.”</p><p>“–and it’s been a long time now, that this has been going on. Since Warlock or before. And I <em> know </em> you’re in pain, Crowley, and it’s killing me to see you doing this to yourself, whatever <em> this </em> is–” </p><p>“Angel, if you knew what ‘this’ was, you wouldn’t give a flying shit. So if you could just <em> drop </em> it–"</p><p>“–and not even be able to– No, I won’t drop it! We’ve been through <em> far </em> too much together–”</p><p>“–because it’s honestly none of your business what–”</p><p>“–Crowley, we’ve been friends <em> six thousand</em>–”</p><p>“–we’re <em> not ‘</em>friends’–”</p><p>“–we <em> damn </em> well are, and I wish you’d stop <em> lying </em> to me!”</p><p>The sound of Aziraphale’s voice reverberated around the bookshop awkwardly, into nooks and crannies left void by Crowley’s stunned silence. It felt wrong – like something raw and bleeding had been torn open. Like Crowley had forced water from a stone.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, and that was worse, somehow. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t– I know you don’t want me to pry into this. It wasn’t my place – any of it. Forget I asked.”</p><p>And then he nodded once, to himself – with barely a tremble for how his eyes seemed to glisten – and turned to leave the room.</p><p>Crowley’s hand shot out on instinct, grabbing him – a desperate attempt to hold him in place; to keep the sand from draining out from between his fingers.</p><p>“Aziraphale–” he opened his mouth to say, “–Aziraphale, please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll cut back on the stupid wine; keep it professional, if that’s what it takes. I’ll never make you upset like this again, I promise, just give me one more chance to bury this and be <em> normal</em>, because I <em> swear</em>–”</p><p>But that wasn’t what came out of his mouth at all.</p><p>Instead, Crowley coughed up flower after flower – reds, and purples, and whites, all right in front of Aziraphale – his feelings on display in brilliant, ghastly technicolor. He coughed until the floor was littered with petals; coughed until there were tears in his eyes.</p><p>“…<em> Crowley–?!</em>” said Aziraphale with alarm, reaching out–</p><p>And Crowley snapped his fingers and vanished away before Aziraphale could think better of it, and withdraw the hand as always.</p><hr/><p>It was several weeks before he saw Aziraphale again. The angel didn’t call and didn’t write, and Crowley felt relieved, and gutted, and perversely vindicated all at once at that fact.</p><p>He considered not returning – considered actually just flying off to Alpha Centauri after all, where maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t find him with his warmth, and his eyes, and his <em> god-blessed </em> voice. Where Crowley could suffocate himself to death with love and plant matter in peace.</p><p>He didn’t consider it for very long.</p><p>“Angel?” Crowley called as he entered the bookshop. “Are you here?”</p><p>The shop was dark and completely empty of customers, which, since it was theoretically a business day, meant nothing. </p><p>Crowley made his way back to the back room, and rapped on the frame.</p><p>“Angel, I came to apologize…”</p><p>The door swung open of his own volition, and Crowley stepped hesitantly inside.</p><p>Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, back to the door, and some sort of restoration project or other in front of him. He didn’t turn around when Crowley entered.</p><p>“Aziraphale…” Crowley started, and then trailed off.</p><p>There was a new packet laid neatly on Aziraphale’s desk – a computer print-out, no doubt, from that hulking, ancient PCW that Aziraphale still used for some ungodly reason. Even from across the room, Crowley could recognize the wiki format easily. And there, in the corner… was a Fanlore logo. <em> Fuck</em>.</p><p>“I’ve been doing some reading,” said Aziraphale, with a careful, polished neutrality, without looking up.</p><p>“You don’t have to print out everything you want to read, you know,” Crowley tried, because he couldn’t think of anything better to say. “If you got a bigger screen–”</p><p>“My computer is perfectly fine, thank you,” said Aziraphale, turning, finally, and Crowley grimaced.</p><p>So, that was it, then.</p><p>Six thousand bloody years of friendship, and he’d thrown it all away for a literal metaphor. </p><p>“…fucking hell,” Crowley sighed. “It was nice while it lasted.”</p><p>“So… you <em> do</em>–” Aziraphale started, and Crowley cut him off with a wave.</p><p>“Yes, obviously yes!” he said. “Yes, it’s Hanahaki disease. Yes, I’ve had it for years. You’re completely right, and clever as always.”</p><p>“I’m afraid that I don’t follow.”</p><p>“What’s there to follow? You seem to have a perfectly good source right in front of you,” said Crowley, and if there was bitterness in his voice, it was only because he was losing the person he loved and his life was falling apart, and <em> bless it all</em>, he was allowed.</p><p>There was a very long pause. Aziraphale set his restoration tools down gently on the desk in front of him, and then carefully, slowly, removed his reading glasses as well. Then he stood and walked up to the doorway where Crowley was standing, an absolutely unreadable expression on his face. Crowley did his level best not to flinch.</p><p>“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, finally, and there was something almost warning in his tone. “Hanahaki isn’t real.”</p><p>Crowley shrugged – a poor imitation of nonchalance. “So?”</p><p>“So,” said Aziraphale. “Why are you dying of a made-up disease?” It didn’t feel like a question, so much as an accusation.</p><p>Crowley looked away. “Not dying. I’m immortal.”</p><p>“That isn’t the part I care about, Crowley, and you know it.”</p><p>Crowley said nothing. There was really nothing to say, was there. His dirty little secret was out. And perhaps that had always been where this had been headed, from the first. Perhaps that had been the point all along. His own guilty conscience had betrayed him, as surely as any heart beating under the floorboards. And now Aziraphale knew, and it was over.</p><p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, more instantly. “Tell me why you have Hanahaki disease.”</p><p>“Because…” he said, finally, and the words hurt more as they passed his lips than any of the flowers ever had. “…I felt like I should.”</p><p>Aziraphale was silent for another long, lost moment.</p><p>Then he steeled himself, and looked Crowley in the eye.</p><p>“Why not me?” he said.</p><p>“…What?” Crowley stuttered out, and Aziraphale practically exploded.</p><p>“I’m an <em> angel</em>, Crowley!” he cried. “I’m practically made of love! <em> I </em> could have loved you. If you’d– If you’d given me even <em> half </em> a chance, you could have been loved, so– so why did you pick whoever <em> this </em> is instead of me?”</p><p>“…<em> What? </em>” asked Crowley, but Aziraphale was barely even listening to him anymore.</p><p>“And– and even if you. Even if you couldn’t ever– Even if it <em> had </em> to be them, I could have helped you. I’m sure I could have. I could have helped you win their heart, or, or miracle the condition away. You didn’t have to be in pain. Crowley, I <em> would </em> have helped, you know I would have. Even if it meant you leaving me, I would have helped…!”</p><p>Crowley opened his mouth to interject… something? …then closed it again. It was like he’d fallen through a looking glass; like he’d tripped into some bizarre alternate world where up was down, and nothing made sense at all.</p><p>“Aziraphale…” he asked, finally. “…Do you love me?”</p><p>Aziraphale paused, mid-rant, and then sat down roughly into the nearest chair, dropping like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.</p><p>“…Of course I do,” Aziraphale said, the words sharp, and pained, and desperate.</p><p>And Crowley breathed – he breathed more deeply, more fully than he could remember, drank in the air until he was lightheaded, his lungs expanding as six thousand tendrils of doubt and pain and longing evaporated, vanishing like the morning dew.</p><p>“I love you,” he exhaled, and moved to hold Aziraphale, leaned in to capture the angel’s lips with his own. “Aziraphale, I love you – I love you so much.”</p><p>Aziraphale stiffened at the kiss, and pulled back.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale. “It was unrequited. You said it was Hanahaki, and Hanahaki is <em> un</em>requited–”</p><p>“It <em> was </em> unrequited,” said Crowley. “I didn’t think you loved me back. You always pulled away, always looked at me like…”</p><p>“Like what?” asked Aziraphale, sharply. “Like I knew I couldn’t have you? Like for all your flirting and kindness, for all the times that we saved each other, you’d– you’d fly off to bloody <em> Alpha Centauri </em> of all places if it came to that and <em> leave </em>me without even–”</p><p>Crowley kissed him, and this time Aziraphale kissed back – desperately, hungrily; like he’d been fighting this for decades or more, choking down his own metaphorical flowers, and starved for something unobtainable. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, until they were both out of breath – and then they decided that breathing was overrated, and kissed some more.</p><p>“Angel,” said Crowley, finally, as he pulled away slightly – and he couldn’t fight the smile that was growing on his face any more than he could fight the warmth growing in his heart. “I think we may have been misreading each other a bit.”</p><p>“I suppose we have,” said Aziraphale, and then kissed him again. “Perhaps we should make up for lost time.”</p><p>And Crowley laughed into his mouth, and did.</p><p>Later, Crowley knew, they would talk about the pain, and pining, and silent years. They would compare notes, and compare desires – and piece by piece, promise by promise, make it so that they never hurt each other, or themselves, like this again. Later, they’d have to put in the work, to come together to build this new and fragile thing into something lasting.</p><p>But for now, they loved each other. And that was more than enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much to my absolutely amazing artist ClaryGhost for her stunning work on this piece! Go check out her tumblr at https://smolghostings.tumblr.com/ and give her some love; her work in this and other fandoms is honestly amazing, and she's been an inspiration to work with.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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